Mine, Yours
by lawyerbeewitched
Summary: Natasha was fast asleep on the couch when Sherlock finally made it home in the wee hours of the morning.


Natasha was fast asleep on the couch when Sherlock finally made it home in the wee hours of the morning. An open book on her chest told him she'd fallen asleep while reading, a cooling cup of tea on the coffee table that Mrs. Hudson must've paid her a visit over the course of the evening.

Early evening, he decided, as he dropped his Belstaff on a chair by the door, slipping out of his suit coat and unbuttoning his sleeves. Natasha hadn't bothered with a blanket and wore little else besides one of his favorite shirts, light blue and barely buttoned. The barest hint of black lace peeked past the hem where it had ridden up on her hips and bunched up a bit around her waist. She wasn't usually modest about nudity, much like him, but Mrs. Hudson was the fussy type and Natasha was usually careful of her inadvertently catching sight of her scars.

Sherlock tugged his own shirt free of his trousers, took care of the buttons, and toed off his shoes, smiling to himself when Natasha rolled on the couch, extended her arms up over her head, and stretched. She didn't open her eyes, but one of her hands found the book on her chest, dropped it on the floor with a thump, and beckoned him over with a flick of her fingers.

"C'mere, you," she said in that raspy voice of hers, and his smile widened imperceptibly. She'd always been a light sleeper.

The couch cushions dipped when he pressed a knee to the edge, balancing himself with a hand on the armrest so he could lean in and kiss her forehead, right between her brows. Her green eyes fluttered open, and all at once he found himself staring the sleepy, soft green eyes of his soon-to-be wife. She smiled at him all bright and glowing like she hadn't seen him in weeks. Which was true. She'd been off on a mission for the better part of a month, and he'd had back to back cases since she'd left.

It was also the reason they hadn't set a date for the wedding, and had, on more than one occasion, considered eloping. Mary wouldn't have it, though, and after she'd spotted the ring, neither would Mrs. Hudson.

Natasha clutched the open halves of his shirt in her fingers and pulled him down for a kiss, soft and sweet, and surprisingly _deep_ , given that they'd only just gotten started. Sherlock moaned into the kiss and Natasha nipped his bottom lip, breaking out in another smile.

"Missed you," she murmured.

"Missed you too," he breathed back.

He shifted and settled between her bare legs, heart already thrumming in his chest, skin tingling from the feel of her pressed all warm against him. Giving up this part of his humanity while he was on a case was a sacrifice Sherlock made willingly, a sacrifice Natasha understood because she made it herself, but this part right here, where they gave into each other when the day was over and the job was done because they were safe in each other's arms, he loved that too. He dipped his head to kiss the soft underside of her jaw, the spot behind her ear that always made her breath hitch.

She tipped her head back, closed her eyes, arching against his chest. "I really, _really_ missed you," she breathed out.

"Mm, I can tell," he hummed against her skin. "My shirt, is it?" He skimmed his hands down her sides, slid his arms around her waist, and rolled them on the couch again so she was draped over his chest, straddling his hips. She smiled that slow smile of hers that stole his breath away, and leaned in for another kiss.

"Smells like you," she murmured. "I wasn't sure when you'd be back, so I improvised."

Sherlock hummed again, eyeing her as she sat up, bit her lip, and smoothed her hands down his bare chest, tossing long red hair over her shoulder. The shirt was wrinkled, the buttons coming undone, exposing from her elegant collarbones to halfway down her chest. With her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright, she was the single most beautiful specimen of humanity he'd ever seen, inside and out. And when she looked at him like that, like he was her whole world, he was reminded of that ridiculous phrase people used, something about hearts skipping beats, or some such nonsense.

More accurately, he would've described it as his brain short-circuiting, shutting down, leaving him shaking and overwhelmed with longing. What he was thinking and feeling must've been obvious on his face, because she was leaning in and cupping his face in her hands a second later, catching his lips in a tender kiss.

" _I love you_ ," she whispered. " _I love you and I missed you and for the rest of the night all I want to see, feel, taste, and know, is you…_ " She kissed him again, bit gently on his bottom lip. " _Only you._ "

Sherlock made a soft noise in the back of his throat, slipped his shaking hands beneath the hem of her shirt, and hooked two fingers into her lacy underwear, giving it a gentle tug. She rose off him to help them off, returned the favor with his shirt and trousers, but he stopped her when she reached for the buttons of her stolen shirt.

"Leave it on," he said in a rush.

Natasha sat astride him, wrists in his hands, lips twitching like she wanted to smile despite her flushed cheeks, messy hair, and heated gaze. "Possessive," she deduced.

"Maybe," he replied, releasing her wrists only to smooth his hands over her thighs and grip her hips once again. He flexed his fingers and she settled over him, hands on his chest, shirt falling from her shoulder but still very much on.

"Say it," she whispered, voice pitched low.

Sherlock couldn't look away, but then when it came to Natasha, he rarely could. His hands slid over too-warm skin, up to her back, tipping her forward to steal another kiss, deep and greedy and possessive. " _Mine_."

" _Yours_ ," she breathed.

She'd say it again, later, as they fell asleep on the couch, sweaty and spent and half covered in the nearest blanket they could reach. Sherlock would smile against her forehead, tuck her closer to his chest, and the very next day, they'd set a date for their wedding.


End file.
